


I Don't Like Art, But I Do Like You

by Donvex



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Art School, First Meetings, Fluff, M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 18:24:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12917637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donvex/pseuds/Donvex
Summary: From an anon who requested:"you said you take prompts right?? how about a richie that doesn't see the point of art and a eddie whos a artist, and somehow they fall in love?"Or, in which Richie carves wood, Eddie watercolors, and art school facilities continue to be shit.





	I Don't Like Art, But I Do Like You

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to killerqueer for being my beta!! They're lovely and you should obviously go read their work before mine.

It doesn’t matter that he goes to an art school -

 

Richie Tozier does  _ not  _ respect art majors.

 

He just doesn’t, not when they’re all pretentious and useless. The dance majors spend every night partying, and then meet up with the musical theater majors in the morning to dance on the tables in the cafeteria. The crafts majors are a joke before you even get past their name. There’s literally  _ no use  _ for a degree in fucking  _ drawing _ .

 

He doesn’t respect them, not when they’re all useless.

 

Richie actually puts work into his craft. Woodcarving is difficult work that keeps his hands occupied and actually produces something  _ useful _ in the end. His pieces, if not sold after turning them in for a grade, he can keep and use. Most of the furniture in his apartment is his own - which  _ really  _ saves him money.

 

And he’s dedicated enough that instead of going out on Saturday night to get wrecked, he tucks himself in early so that he can go into the studios at 6:30am on a Sunday.

 

Yeah, he’s a pretty great student.

 

The only downfall to going into the studios early, and on an off-day, is that almost every room is locked. The facilities are shit, to say the least, considering they’re only open twenty four seven during the last two weeks of each semester. And now he’s going to have to scope out the building to see if any floor has an already open room; Otherwise he’s going to have to go down to the security desk again and wait for twenty minutes for someone to bring a key.

 

Things aren’t looking great when he reaches the fourth floor and finds all the woodshop studios locked tight, but he doesn’t  _ actually _ need the woodshop today. It’s just some prep work for his final project. There’s a whole lotta work to put down on paper before he’s ready to start building. So, since he doesn’t need the woodshop he decides to scour the rest of the building for an empty room.

 

The fibers floor isn’t even split into a bunch of studios. It’s just three long hallways that are, in themselves, studios - and all three hallways are locked. The illustration floor, two up from fibers and proudly displaying a  _ glistening  _ display case filled with art work, is equally useless. But snugged in between, past a small gallery and the lightbox room - is the guillotine. Richie doesn’t typically have need for the paper cutter, save on rare occasions where he needs to mat and display his blueprints, but he knows it’s there. And, to his surprise and pleasure, the light in the room is  _ on. _

 

Which means it’s open.

 

Which also means someone must be inside.

 

Richie’s first thought upon opening the door is  _ fuck, I got beat out.  _ That thought is quickly followed by a string of  _ I was right, there is someone inside _ and  _ oh god, it’s gonna be a useless visual arts major.  _

 

And, again, he’s right.

 

The single, large table in the room is covered in a stack of objects. Sketchbooks are flipped open to thumbnails and references, larger printed sketches with value are taped down beside that, and neon colored pencils spill out from a lavender colored tote. Several plastic containers are laid out, filled with water, watercolor tablets, and some remnants of paint mixing. A laptop is angled between them, the screen filled with photos and the speakers quietly playing music.

 

And, the crowning jewel - there’s a cute boy at the center of it all, frowning in Richie’s direction.

 

“You’re covered in fucking  _ dust _ .”

 

Oh. Oh  _ no.  _ Richie  _ likes _ that.

 

But, he reminds himself,  _ he also likes his dust. _

 

“Yeah, that comes from hours of working hard, short stuff. Using the whole table?” Richie leans against the doorframe, making it clear he isn’t going anywhere. He crosses his ankles, his scuffed up boots dragging across the floor. He would be going for a kind of rugged look, if it wasn’t for the fact that his denim jacket was hand-dyed to be bright pink.

 

“What’s the point of not utilizing my space when no one else is here?”

 

“Well, it didn’t take long for someone to show up, did it?” Richie is grinning, feeling like he holds the upper hand. There’s no real reason for him to be an asshole right now, but according to him, it’s part of his charm. It’s supposed to be  _ endearing _ .

 

The kid does not seem to find it endearing in anyway. He just snorts and fixes a pointed look on Richie.

 

“It took sixteen hours.”

 

Richie is visibly confused, and the kid laughs at him. It’s more of a bark, but Richie hesitantly labels it as, well, endearing.

 

_ What he’s supposed to be, right now. _

 

“I’ve been here since 3pm yesterday. You wanna share the table? Sure. You wanna be a dick about it? I’ve been staked out here on and off for the past five nights, you can go back to your own floor.”

 

Richie is...floored. Astonished. Confused?

 

This kid, this  _ visual artist _ , has been here for  _ sixteen hours _ . Sixteen hours on a Saturday night. Into a Sunday morning. And more than that, this isn’t even the first night.

 

“You gotta be a wreck.” There’s something new in Richie’s voice, something eerily close to a begrudging respect.

 

“Yeah, most of the illustration students are.”

 

Oh. Oh no  _ again _ .

 

This kid isn’t just cute, he’s funny. He’s got a spark. Richie doesn’t think he can stand for that, not if he still intends on disrespecting visual artists.

 

“When are you going home?”

 

“God, you’re that desperate to take this room from me? I’ll probably go home around noon, but I’m coming back tonight. I need this done for my six hour studio tomorrow.”

 

Richie finally pulls out a stool and leans directly into this kid’s space, actually looking at what he’s working on. It’s a series of record covers, from what he can tell. He’s actually kind of fascinated by the layout, there’s obviously a lot of planning gone into it. Even the lettering is styled, pages of calligraphy and designs laid out next to the finalized sketch. The kid doesn’t push him away, either. He lets Richie take it all in, and after a few moments, quietly starts pointing out his favorite parts.

 

It’s quiet and soft. It’s still the early hours, when most people aren’t in the studios to begin with, and they have the room all to themselves. Richie thinks of a few questions to ask, and the more he pushes, the more interested he is. This kid has an answer for everything, and a good one. It’s not as bullshit as Richie thought it was. 

 

Eventually this kid points to the sunrise, and Richie thinks for a moment that he’s going to take it all back if he has to pause for a picture, but again, he’s surprised.

 

“Look at that piece of shit,” Eddie grumbles. “That goddamn orange dot is supposed to make staying up worth it?  _ Who cares that I just gave up an entire night of sleep when I get to see the fucking sunrise!  _ Yeah, sure.” 

 

Richie thinks he’s gonna piss himself from laughing so hard, or at least fall off the stool.

 

It’s still early, to be fair. And he hasn’t had coffee or breakfast. And he was immediately thrown off his game when he met an artist who’s  _ actually  _ competent. So he doesn’t think he can be completely to blame when his filter isn’t as strong as it should be.

 

“I think I’m in love with you. I think I’m in love with you and I don’t even know your name.”

 

He gets pushed off his stool.

  
(It’s worth it, though, when he looks up to a pair of shining eyes and the words “ _ It’s Eddie _ .”)

**Author's Note:**

> This was fun to write! Definitely more fun than actually staying up all night to finish my illustration homework.
> 
> Say hi on tumblr at donvex.tumblr.com or leave me a tip at ko-fi.com/monstrumian !


End file.
